


We'll Cross That Bridge When We Get To It

by rubygirl29



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, ccbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 23:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following a brutal, isolated captivity, Clint is afraid to be alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Cross That Bridge When We Get To It

**Author's Note:**

> The story is set post _Thor_ and pre- _Captain America_. Written for the ccbingo prompt "Eremophobia - Fear of Loneliness." 
> 
> Marvel owns them, I just borrow them once in a while.

_He's been missing for two months. His captors torture him first; electric prods, ice water -- it's nothing new to him. When those fail to break him, they take away light, his clothing except for boxers and a thin wife-beater and leave him in the darkness, in the silence. At first, he almost likes it. He's a solitary creature by habit, lurking in the ducts and dropped ceilings of S.H.I.E.L.D, finding bolt holes where he could watch and listen. Intelligence gathering, he calls it at first, then when he is learning to trust again, he tells himself he's taking watch over Coulson, Selvig, Jane Foster, Darcy Lewis. Not Natasha. She takes care of herself, and sometimes, even of him._

_In the absolute dark, he has no way to gauge the passage of time. Nobody comes to empty the bucket of slops. The arrival of food, what little there is, is announced by the scrape of a metal tray on stone, not by any light. He tries to track time by how hard the bread gets, figuring it will take twenty-four to forty-eight hours for it to become stale. It doesn't work; the air is so dank that the bread never dries, it turns moldy and inedible. He needs to eat something, even if it's soggy, tasteless bread._

_He starts missing the sound of human voices; the rise and fall of them even if he can't understand the words. He starts talking to himself, reciting poetry, bits of the Bible he recalls from his childhood. The S.H.I.E.L.D. directives are 600 pages long and he can even repeat a good portions of those, but he keeps that information to himself and starts reciting his high school biology textbook instead. His near eidetic memory is both a blessing and a curse._

_His voice runs down before his words do. He can't even talk to himself. After that, there is only darkness, cold and soul-searing emptiness._

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
 _Croatia -- Velebit region_

"Sir, we have a location," Natasha says quietly over her mike. "It seems the intel was good."

"I'm on the way. Don't move in on the target until I get there."

"Yes, sir." She sounds doubtful but also impatient. "Sir, we have to get in there quickly."

Phil Coulson, a man who is always composed, always calm, is shaking as he shoves a clip into his spare Sig-Sauer. He's not taking chances. He's going in loaded for bear. If those bastards who took Barton are in the caves, he _will_ kill them without a single thought to their possible value as assets. They took Clint Barton and hid him, tortured him, for two months. Barton is tough; he would never have survived this long if he weren't. Their source swore he was alive. Phil will kill him first if he lied. 

Phil knows what captivity means. He knows what it can do. He _knows_ and he fears what it will mean for Clint, for S.H.I.E.L.D. For him. He can't let that be a distraction. 

The strike team is waiting; big men dressed in black with big guns, and Natasha. Coulson is wearing a bulletproof vest and tactical gear. He looks at Romanov. She nods and touches his arm. "Let's get our boy."

The soldiers go in first. Coulson can hear them sweeping and clearing the cavern's tunnels. He hears no gunfire, so sound of opposition. The captain leading the team speaks in his earpiece. "No hostiles, sir. We're continuing the full sweep."

"Agent Romanov and I are coming in, Captain. Continue your progress." He nods to Natasha and they head into the caves, following the last man on the strike force. 

The cavern is cold and dank. Water runs down the walls and Phil's flashlight is a pencil-thin beam in the vast darkness. It plays off incredible stalagmites and stalactites, crystalline waterfalls, and shimmering pools. 

"The caves of this region are legendary," Natasha whispers, the walls magnifying her voice. "They have been used for centuries for refuge from enemies and for prisons when those enemies were vanquished. The caves are rumored to be haunted."

"You are not helping, Agent Romanov," Phil says as he walks along a path that seems to be carved right into the stone. Before Natasha can reply, Captain Velikov's voice comes over their mikes. 

_"We've found Barton, Agent Coulson. He's alive, in bad shape, though. Word of warning, sir, turn off your flashlights."_

Coulson and Natasha break into a cautious jog. When they reach the first sentry, they turn off their flashlights. It makes sense, Coulson thinks. If Barton has been underground this whole time, his eyes will be sensitive. He tries to retain his distance and his objectivity, but his pulse is betraying him. He nods, fits his body through the narrow opening in the rocky walls. The light in the chamber is low, but even with that, Barton's eyes are bandaged to protect them. The medics are prepping him to be moved. Speaking softly, reassuringly. Natasha is kneeling next to the stretcher, her hand on Clint's shoulder. She says something to him and looks up at Coulson. He's shaken by the tears in her eyes. 

The chamber stinks. It's cold, dark and damp. Phil can't assess Barton's condition, but he can feel him shivering beneath the blanket that he clutches to his chin. He's too thin, too weak, too overwhelmed for more than simple comfort. Coulson crouches next to him and speaks softly. "You stood me up."

Clint chokes a little on that, his throat working to form words. "Lousy cell reception, sir." His hand moves to seek Phil's. "Sorry." Then the sedatives the medics have given him kick in and his grip on Phil's hand grows slack. 

^*^*^*^*^*^

Two days later as Phil is in his office writing up the sit-rep on the rescue, his phone rings. "Agent Coulson, this is Dr. Wheldon. Barton's awake." 

Phil has been waiting 48 hours to hear those words. Clint had been taken to Ramstein Army Medical Center for his initial treatment while Coulson and the rescue team had flown back to New York. He hasn't seen Clint since watching his stretcher being loaded on the MedEvac chopper. It's been the longest two days of his life. He finishes typing a sentence and sends it to Darcy to be proofread before he sends it on to Fury. The clinical analysis of the report doesn't betray his inner turmoil. That only shows in the slight tremor of his hands, quickly hidden from any observing eyes. 

He gets to medical as Dr. Wheldon is putting on her light examination gown and gloves. "How is Agent Barton?" he asks, wondering if there are any privacy laws he's violating. 

"I'll know more after I examine him."

"What can you tell me now?"

"He's alive," she says. "Now that he's receiving proper medical care, I expect he'll remain that way." She gives him a slight smile and disappears into Clint's room. Phil looks in, but all he can see is darkness and the glow of penlights. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Clint wakes in a panic, restrained and blind. He only knows that he's not in the cave, and everything _hurts_. He hears the sounds of monitors frantically going off, of voices that are too loud. He struggles against the restraints, panic strangling his voice in his throat. There are hands on his shoulders, but they are gentle, not punishing, and the people are speaking English, not Croat. His voice comes back.

"I can't see!" He grabs the nearest arm. 

"Agent Barton, listen to me. My name is Dr. Elizabeth Wheldon. You are safe, at S.H.I.E.L.D. Your eyes are fine. They're bandaged because you were in the dark for so long that bright light would have been painful and possibly harmful."

"I'm tied down!"

"To keep you from pulling out your IVs and the bandages. Be still and I'll take them off." The pressure of the cuffs loosens. "Better?"

He nods and lies still. 

"Dim the lights. I'm going to take the bandages off your eyes. Keep them closed until I tell you to open them. Do you understand?"

"Yes." He can still hear the monitors beeping too fast, echoing his heart thudding in his chest. The bandages are removed, then the gauze pads. Even the slight glow of the dimmed lights makes his eyes tear, but he can see dim shapes; then as the lights slowly brighten, the blur of faces. He blinks hard and his eyes focus. It's too much. He closes them again and falls back on the pillows. "I can see," he whispers. 

"Good. We'll keep the lights dim and slowly bring them up as your eyes adjust." She takes off her gloves. "You have a visitor." She steps aside and Phil is standing there, his tie slightly awry, his forehead creased with worry. "Are you up for it?"

He nods. For some reason his throat is too tight and he thinks he might choke, but it is just _Phil_ , looking at him with a peculiar soft expression in his eyes that might be sadness, or might be something different. Clint blinks and the expression is gone. Once more, it's the _Agent's Agent_ expression that Clint has grown used to seeing over the years. 

"Sorry, sir. You'll have to wait for a full report," Clint manages to whisper. 

"I'll put it on my calendar."

The doctor appears at Phil's side. "That's it for today, Agent Coulson. Barton needs his rest."

Clint has no control of the sudden increase in his pulse that the monitors show. The doctor turns back to him, takes his wrist. "I'm going to have the nurse give you something to calm you down."

"No! I just -- " His throat constricts and he manages to gasp, "Going to be sick --" Wheldon holds a basin but he hasn't eaten anything and he dry heaves until he falls back, tears streaking from his eyes. "Not alone." 

"I'll stay," Phil offers, seeing Clint's panic and weakness. "Okay?" He leaves the choice to Clint, giving him back some lost dignity. He nods his assent.

"Will you take that sedative?" Wheldon asks. "You need to rest." 

Phil's face hovers into his line of sight. "Never say no to the good drugs, Barton."

Clint sighs, agreeing. Wheldon taps something on her tablet and leaves the room. Phil sits in the chair, takes out his smartphone and a stylus and starts typing an email. The light from the phone is enough to be comforting. The nurse returns with the sedative. Clint's right hand clenches the blankets until Phil covers his knuckles lightly with his hand. "Don't fight it. I'll stay, I promise."

It doesn't take long for Clint to drift away. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

It's a long convalescence -- almost as long as his captivity. Clint gets used to the hospital routines. His panic attacks fade, but he still keeps his door open at night so he can hear the hospital bustle to remind him that he's not alone. The best nights are the ones when Phil sits tapping away on his tablet, silent other than an occasional comment on whatever Clint is watching on TV until he falls asleep. 

On the day he has regained all but ten of the pounds he lost, he's discharged from medical and released into the wilds of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. It's a strange feeling to be wearing his own jeans and T-shirt instead of hospital issue pajamas or the sweats he wore for rehab. They're just loose enough to feel like he's wearing somebody else's clothes. He finds Natasha sparring in the gym. After her partner goes down and doesn't get up again, Natasha says something to him in Russian. She holds out her hand and pulls him to his feet. She smiles sweetly at him as he leaves. 

Clint chuckles. "Coward?"

Natasha shrugs. "His heart wasn't in it."

"He was _sparring_ , not fighting for his life."

"When you fight with me, you are fighting for your life."

"Need a new partner?"

Natasha eyes him. "I'd break you like a twig, Clinton." She gives him a hug. "I missed you."

"You didn't come to see me."

"I hate hospitals. I'm not good at visiting the sick."

"Okay." He looks around. "Not even a little sparring?"

"Come see me when you don't look like I could break you in half." Her phone rings and she digs it out of her pile of clothing on a bench. "Romanov. Yes, sir. I'll be there." She closes her phone. "I have a job." She kisses him on the cheek. "When I get back. _Das vi danya._ " 

She leaves and Clint wraps his hands and puts on gloves. He makes it through a five minute workout on the heavy bag before he starts seeing black spots in front of his eyes and has to quit. Pathetic. He wanders down the halls, acknowledging people he knows. Most of them aren't meeting his eyes. He's starting to feel invisible; not that he ever minded being that way when he wanted to be that way. It troubles him now, however. Just when he's starting to fade physically, he reaches Coulson's office. He opens the door. Empty. However, Coulson's desk lamp is on and his computer is still powered up, so he's in the building. 

Clint doesn't feel alone in here. He feels safe. Phil has a well-worn black leather sofa along one wall; the blankets over the arm testifying to the nights spent there. Even the cushions bear the imprint of Phil's body. Clint sits, then slouches, then finally gives up and lies down, burying his face in the pillows and pulling one of the blankets over his shoulders. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
The meeting with Director Fury runs long. Phil's spine feels like it's been tied in knots by Hercules. His head hurts and he would really like to go home. He still has some data to enter before he can call it a day. This is not his favorite part of his job. He's prefers being a field agent to being a desk agent, but with Clint laid up and Natasha out of the country, he's been spending more time in his office than usual. 

He puts his coffee down on and takes off his jacket. He loosens his tie and is about to sit at the desk when he hears a soft rustle and a quiet moan of distress. His gun is out and he's turning in one swift motion. Then he stops, poised to shoot. _Barton?_ He puts the safety on his weapon and sets it down on his desk, taking no chance that Barton will act on instinct and attempt to disarm him if awakened.

Clint's brow is furrowed and he's moving restlessly. Phil sets a firm hand on his calf. "Barton. Wake up. You're safe." He repeats the phrase several times before Clint stills. His eyes are sleep-blurred, a little wide as he takes in his surroundings, finally relaxing as the familiarity sinks in. He takes a deep breath. "Sorry. I fell asleep."

"You don't need an excuse. You're always welcome."

"I can stay?"

Phil suddenly realizes that Clint, for the first time in all the years they've known each other, does not want to be alone. His expression, half-hopeful, half-embarrassed, makes Phil's chest hurt. "I'd welcome the company."

"I can do that." Clint lies back down. Phil can see the way his body slowly relaxes back into the cushions. He sits at his desk and starts typing. When he next looks up, Clint is sleeping. He is peaceful, still. Phil doesn't quite know what to do -- to wake Clint or to let him sleep while he tries to sleep in his chair? The thought of sleeping in his chair makes Phil's back ache in protest. 

It's a big couch with deep cushions. Phil takes his tie off, toes off his shoes. He uses the bathroom off his office to wash up, splashing cool water on his red eyes. He hangs up his trousers and puts on well-worn sweats. He dims the lights, turns off his computer. When he turns around, Clint is watching him. His eyes are beautiful, eyelids weighted by thick lashes. He opens the blanket and presses back into the cushions to make room for Phil. 

Phil considers his options. "Let me ... Sit up." He moves behind Clint, waits for him to settle into the curve of his body. "Comfortable?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Fine." What should be awkward, isn't. It's not the first time they've shared a small space for sleep. Their bodies align. Clint sighs wearily. "Thanks for letting me stay."

"Tomorrow, we're going to my place."

"Okay." He burrows deeper into the pillow. Phil's arm falls over his ribs and he strokes down gently, soothingly. "I don't want to be alone," Clint whispers. 

"I know. It will get better."

Clint's laughter ghosts over Phil's skin. "Does it get better than this?"

"Stop flirting and go to sleep." Phil tries to sound grumpy, tries to sound as if he deliberately misinterpreted Clint's remark, but he blows that impression out of the water when he kisses the rise of Clint's shoulder. Clint's hand closes over his. Phil smiles as he realizes that while Clint will heal, _this_ doesn't have to change. 

**The End ******


End file.
